My Last Prom

I found you dead on page six

obituaries. I knew those eyes.

I stared longingly many times

as my breath caught in conflict.

I loved you but I didn’t, not really.

Eighteen, dumb, no grasp on aging,

maturing, war was waiting, and loving

you was a leisure I couldn’t pay so I left you

in a storm, dirty pool, wrong headed.

I’m sorry. You’re dead, I am spirituality

gone, stone drop from sanity. I am gone.

Reaping

Every picture strikes a chord, a scenario

of years long gone, long hidden.

I’ve forgotten my forefathers, hard

working farmers, victims of Depression,

war, disease, lost friends. You’re gone.

Soon, too soon we follow our own parade.

Someone said once “one day older,

one day closer to the end.” I ask the end of what,

the end of a hard day’s work, shoveling stalls,

reaping fields of wheat, or reaping the dead

from wars declared by the rich, the arrogant,

narcissistic kings living in gold and silver

while their followers sleep in hovels declaring

victory over their hard days, slavery never sleeps.

Arty’s Story

Each morning it’s “off to work love.”

Each time I am lost, never could live without you,

pity me Lord, my body now frail

without a will to continue this trip

across the Milky Way, it’s just too much.

I can’t bear this loneliness, lungs struggling,

this heart’s dragging me here and there.

“Doing good Arty,” the nurse says somberly.

“You’ll be running about in no time.”

Where too, I wonder and to whom or what,

a gurney maybe rolling slowly to man’s self built hell,

sifting sands of my time on earth?

A hole no doubt, a wooden box where it’s ‘off to work love.”

Purposeless

Finite life passes before your eyes,

infinite life stays for others to see.

Count, don’t count, whatever you decide.

For me, everything passes my windows

never waving, never smiling, blank.

It’s all blank you see, tomorrow clean,

yesterday a smeared chalkboard.

Can’t I stay a little longer just to kiss

your kissable lips, lips I’ve loved

forever, our forever, just one more night.

George Harrison Visited

George Harrison’s ghost came to me one night

sang a song with his guitar. I listened.

He became my God, my mentor, my reason.

His white robe windswept and crying

for a world gone wrong, a world going backwards.

He smiled at me and played another sad song.

“This is for you my friend, always has been.

Wrap your love around her and weep, sleep

now for all things must pass, so too will this life.”

I am a Starship

I have strolled around this town

sixty years now, nothing new.

No friends to count, just a few.

Doesn’t matter really, friends do

what friends do, sorry if it saddens you.

Sadness gripped me like a vice

as a child after my father’s death, never letting go.

Don’t get this wrong. I found love, adventure,

fatherhood, husbandry, education, and the likes.

Now I have aged, sickened. I now a scavagenger

for words, reasons, logic, philosophy. Deeper

diggings you know. My worries lean towards

Jung, Rogers, presidential follies, hate, love,

things which only made road blocks to youth.

Never went to war. Vietnam spat me out.

That’s okay with me. Didn’t need a Purple Heart,

my pink one is just fine. I have accepted

my final meal, bitter as it may be, but a spoonful

of living will help me fly above the stars.

Going down is okay. I am, as Pink Floyd

so aptly sang “I have become comfortably numb.”

Butrus’s War

A young boy in Somalia named Butrus cries over his mother’s corpse.  While walking down a dirt road carrying food to her children Aziza came face to face with a jeep full of armed militia.  Despite the guttural catcalls and sexist ranting Aziza held her head high and turned her face away.  She was less than a kilometer away from home when the jeep full of vile soldiers stopped.  The young woman found herself immediately on the ground and six men roughly ripping at her clothing.  Each of the six men body slammed her against the hard earth and each of the six men raped her, not once, but several times until spent.

Aziz’s vagina had been cruelly ripped, so damaged blood poured between her legs as the soldiers stared at her with disgust.  They laughed and sneered until the man with the longest beard aimed his pistol at the beautiful Aziza and pulled the trigger.  The band of vagrant militants hastily jumped back into the jeep and rushed away blowing dirt and rocks onto the body of their victim to further debase the body for which just moments before, they hungered.

Butrus heard a shot and saw in the distance an upheaval of dust.  He feared for his mother and his two sisters, but ran towards the ruckus in spite of danger.  He found her.  There before him was his life, his future, and his only security.  His mother’s corpse covered with dirt and blood stared vacantly into a vacant universe.  Such is life at the hands of hate. Butrus’s story is over.  His sisters’ story is over with the cynical smile of starvation bearing down on the small children with each day that passed.

Twenty Bullets

Welcome to the hemisphere

twenty bullets will take your cell phone

black twisted licorice as far as the eye can see

triple K brothers and sisters sit where they want

fuck where they want, and shit where they want

God bless each and every one.

“If you aint white you aint right,” comes the thunderous

Alabamian crowd tramping on the holiest bridge in the world.

“Aint nothin’ a good AR Fifteen can’t fix in seconds flat.”

The K boys don’t care about an Alabama minute or a dead boy

only took twenty bullets to drop his cell phone.

New Galilee

A neighborhood dog pressed his nose against the wind,

drooling at the thought of someone’s bitch in a mama’s way.

He yanked but chains held him tighter with each tug. Soon

he hanged in a noose of steel like a mouse trapped in a pool of cheese.

 

She stood sleek and moving with a savage need for music

like a need she’s felt since youth and bathing suits.

I watched and felt my mouth wetting, salivating for her touch.

She saw me seeing her and smiled, her ass inviting, so inviting.

 

Hiding quiet in their closet I peeked as my father massaged her.

My mother moaned like she was dancing a mamba with only his hand.

Together they softly spoke, gently stroked, the smell of musk climbing,

each stirred until their tongues reached and played a symphony for the night.

 

Fall air snapped me into reality, Cathy stared up to x-ray my eyes

like she is Jesus staring at a splash of water beneath his feet on Galilee.

She clasped my hand and smiled with cherry lips. Right then and there

I died in a pool of my own life, a life not wasted, not known.

I Am a Dead Tree

I died on the battlefield,

a simple affair you see.

No taps were played,

no triangulated flag.

Not a normal death of course

just a mind thing

like closing a coffin door

inside my head.

Sounds of bombs and rockets

muted then silenced

soldiers’ lips mouthing screams,

I was frozen like winter grass

In February.

They brought me home

full honors with a six-pack salute.

I’m planted now beneath a window,

a tree growing

in our living room

I love when they water me.

My grandson pees on me,

occasionally the dog.

My days are surely numbered

leaves are falling from my arms.